


gold on your fingertips

by beanpod



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanpod/pseuds/beanpod
Summary: Jongdae's antsy by the time their manager walks into the fitting room and says Yixing's plane has landed safely. His fingers clutch at empty air and his teeth itch and he tells himself,Calm down. Breathe. In through your nose, hold for five seconds, out through your mouth.His chest hurts. The back of his tongue tastes like anticipation.





	gold on your fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't the slightest idea how exo's dorm arrangements work. feel free to judge.
> 
> i wrote the first k of this back before kkb promos, when yixing appeared at the airport in seoul? around that time, idk. time-frames might be off a bit here, so keep that in mind. 
> 
> title's a line by billie eilish's "hostage", because, like. fitting, i guess.

Jongdae's antsy by the time their manager walks into the fitting room and says Yixing's plane has landed safely. His fingers clutch at empty air and his teeth itch and he tells himself, _Calm down. Breathe. In through your nose, hold for five seconds, out through your mouth_.

His chest hurts. The back of his tongue tastes like anticipation.

 

 

 

It takes forever to be done with the stylists. Kyungsoo is half-dead on his feet. Baekhyun runs into the same chair twice. Everyone is sort of running on fumes, bad coffee and thinly contained excitement for the days to come.

(Honestly, Jongdae's running solely on the thought of his bed, warm and soft under him, a god-sent gift after never-ending hours of flashes and poised smiles.)

The guys make plans to go out and get something cheap and greasy afterwards, beers and soju mentioned under their breaths because their physical trainer is still in ear-shot and he's giving them the ever-present stink-eye. Minseok says, "Someone should tell Yixing so he can join us once he's dropped his stuff," and Jongdae's vowels and consonants get in the way of each other in his haste to answer.

"I'll text him," he says, clearing his throat a little and disguising it as a lung-wrenching cough. "I gotta go back for my glasses, anyway. If he's in I'll make sure to drag him out. Just text me the address of the restaurant."

Everyone nods their agreement—groggily, a bit zombie-like—and scatter about to retrieve jackets and phones and bags. Jongdae reaches for his bag and takes a make-up cleansing tissue from the assistant holding out a whole pack.

"Why did they make us wear make-up for a fitting?" Sehun asks, wiping his face clean. He purses his lips, testy, and walks away to get his stuff, leaves Jongdae to his scrubbing.

Jongdae drops his own dirty tissue in the bin and walks out of the dressing room, reaching for his phone and unlocking it one-handed. The rest of the guys have started making their way downstairs in pairs or by themselves, and Jongdae's one of the latter.

He smiles down at his phone when he sees Yixing's text, a plain and quick _landed ok. meet later?_ and then looks up, right before he bumps into Chanyeol's massive back. "Jesus Christ," he snipes, taking half a step back and clutching at his phone. His heart thuds in his chest, startled.

"Aw, Chanyeol will do just fine," Chanyeol says with a sleepy grin. He waves towards the parking lot. "We're gonna head to the restaurant, then. Let us know if Yixing wants to join, okay? I'm sure he's tired, but we haven't seen him in a while and—"

"Yeah," Jongdae nods, clutching at the strap of his bag. "I'll tell him. See you guys later."

 

 

 

Yixing's on the living room couch when Jongdae walks into the apartment. Every light is on—hall, kitchen, living room—and Yixing's watching the news on the TV. He's taken a shower, his hair's wet and drying wildly, curling behind his ears a little, and his eyes are sleepy even as he chews on a strip of jerky. Jongdae wants to believe he brought that with him because no one's cleaned the fridge in forever and nothing in there should be still edible.

"Hey," he says, toeing his shoes off.

Yixing looks up and blinks slowly, once, twice, before he breaks into a smile. "Hey, finally."

Jongdae swallows. "Yeah. Traffic was insane."

"I bet," Yixing says gently, and pats the side of the couch, his eyes brighter. "You look tired. Come here."

Jongdae shakes his head a little and takes a step in the other direction, towards his room—he has a room for himself now. In between Luhan, Tao and Yifan leaving, Minseok, Yixing and Jongdae have rooms of their own. It drives Baekhyun mad. Jongdae enjoys it more than he should.

(Yixing's gathers dust when he's not here; no one dares to go in, not even Jongdae.)

"I'm gonna take a shower first," Jongdae says slowly. He takes another step. "I smell funny and—"

"Okay," Yixing says with a soft smile. He's looking at Jongdae with this soft look in his eyes and Jongdae wants nothing better than to cross the living room in two strides and kiss him senseless and— "I brought in a sandwich from the airport, I'll heat it up for you when you're done."

Jongdae nods, words tangled around the tip of his tongue. He breathes in through his nose— _hold for five, let go_ —and makes a slow retreat towards his room. He's suffocating. Yixing's in the same room with him and he hasn't been in so long and Jongdae can't breathe properly. His fingers are shaking around his phone and wallet when he leaves them on his night stand. His bag will be dealt with later because right now there's only one thing Jongdae can focus on—which is, admittedly, how to deal with the next thirty minutes without keeling over.

He sighs and shakes his head, hopes to clear it up a little. It's like heat's curling around his throat and he's not even in the shower yet.

 

 

 

It takes a herculean effort not to touch himself in the shower. Truth is, he's—they've—been so busy all week—all month, really—that jerking off sounds like a waste of energy once the day is over. He's half hard, though, even as he pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt and tries to towel his hair dry. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, hands on his knees and just—tries to calm down.

He's not shaking anymore but it's like his blood is simmering just under his skin, and even if he's just taken a cold shower, he feels clammy, like he's been standing under stage lights for too long.

He takes a deep breath. Holds for five. Shakily lets go.

Jongdae walks out of the bathroom to find Yixing walking out of his room. He looks warm and rumpled and Jongdae _wants_. Months of nothing stretch between them and Jongdae clutches at empty air in order to keep himself in check and not close the distance between them.

"Hey," Yixing says, dimple out and about. "Feeling better now?"

Jongdae lets out a smile that's more a grimace than an actual smile. "The answer to that is relatively ambiguous."

"You're using big words, you're fine," Yixing says, making a face and laughing through his nose. He waves towards the kitchen. "Come on, sandwich's ready."

They make their way to the kitchen and Jongdae says, "You know, the guys made plans to go out and get some food and drinks. Do you wanna—"

"Baekhyun texted me about it," Yixing says as he takes a plate out of the microwave and Jongdae takes a seat on the breakfast bar. "Told him I didn't feel like going but I'd still stop by to see them later." He puts the plate in front of Jongdae and gives him a look. "Did you want to go, though? I mean, if you're hungry and the sandwich isn't enough—"

Jongdae holds his gaze. "It'll be enough."

Yixing stares back and it's like they're suspended in time, silent seconds ticking by them. Heat flows from the base of Jongdae's throat and spreads through his chest like a blanket, reaches his fingertips, makes them twitch, achingly empty. Yixing leans into the counter, arms crossed over his chest, a smile making his lips twitch.

"How was it, today? How are things going?"

Jongdae taps his fingers on the table and looks away. He takes a hold of the sandwich and takes a big bite. He chews and shrugs.

"That good, huh," Yixing asks softly, and Jongdae shrugs again.

"Let's watch a movie," Yixing says after, and nods back to the living room. "Bring your sandwich." He gives Jongdae another soft smile, and Jongdae wonders if _choked on pita and turkey_ is a thing that could go on his tombstone and whether it'd make people laugh.

 

 

 

There's nothing good on TV this time of night. So they talk. Jongdae burrows into one side of the couch and Yixing takes the other one and they share a blanket, their feet tucked close to each other's. Jongdae wraps an arm around his raised knees and Yixing's fingers close around Jongdae's right ankle and it's like the heat in his veins settles.

He breathes a little better now.

Yixing's voice carries through the space between them, curls around the space between Jongdae's ribs, warm and tender with affection. He smiles as he talks, as he tells Jongdae about his flight, and the one before that, and the one before that one, and the one to Paris, tells a story about one of the girls in his team and a croissant, makes Jongdae laugh and clutch at his knees and tummy in breathless pain—because it hurts, a bit, that Yixing has all these stories now, stories about people Jongdae's met in passing and not him and the guys.

But Jongdae breathes. He shoulders it on and laughs and shakes his head at Yixing (because he is _ridiculous_ and Jongdae's ridiculously in love with him) and in turn tells him about the last few weeks, the crazy hours, the fittings, the trips to the hair stylist. He tells Yixing about Chanyeol's horrified expression when the towel came off, Baekhyun's bright laughter.

"How was China," Jongdae asks at some point, playing with a loose thread from the blanket.

Yixing shrugs, yawning against the back-rest of the couch. "T'was very Chinese," he says, smirking, and Jongdae wants to cross the space between them to kiss it off, distantly wonders why he hasn't already.

"Asshole," Jongdae mutters, still laughing a little, though, when Yixing chuckles under his breath.

"I missed laughing with you," Yixing says, so soft, and he looks so soft, too, sweet and tender under the yellow lights from the kitchen and the pink-ish glow of the TV.

Jongdae aches from somewhere between his lungs and his throat, his heart rattling in his chest. Yixing smiles again—god, Jongdae had missed that more than he knew—his fingers warm around Jongdae's ankle, squeezing a little.

"Kinda missed laughing at you more, though."

Jongdae's mouth twitches. "You're horrible."

"A whole nation would fight you on that one," Yixing says.

Jongdae shakes his head. "They've all been awfully mislead into believing you're nice."

"I _am_ nice, you know I am," Yixing hums, "I even let you have the bigger room."

Jongdae's chest squeezes the once. "Because Minseok told you to."

Yixing chuckles and looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and breath escapes Jongdae's lungs in a rush. Yixing says, "What are you waiting for to kiss me, Jongdae?"

"I don't know," Jongdae answers truthfully, sitting carefully still while Yixing closes the distance between them.  

 

 

 

The first time they did something like this, Yixing tasted like green tea and steamed buns, warm and sweet and peppery after their impromptu dinner in the airport food-court. He'd clutched at Yixing's shoulders to bring him closer, had let the tiniest of sounds scape through his parted lips when he'd pulled away instead. His eyes had been the clearest Jongdae'd ever seen them, even to this day.

He'd asked, "What was that for?" and Jongdae hadn't known what to say, so he'd only shrugged.

"I wanted to," was his reply, because it was the most honest one he had to give at the moment, and Yixing had taken it, had clutched at it with teeth and nails, and closed the space between them to kiss him once more, had kissed the doubt away until the was only the two of them on Yixing's warm bed.

The last time they did this Yixing said, "I think I'm gonna spend a lot of time over there from now on," and Jongdae had only kissed him harder, had rocked his hips faster, until all that left Yixing's mouth was Jongdae's name like a prayer. Later they'd both lied together in bed, the city outside a bare murmur coming through the open window.

Jongdae had felt restless. Still does, now.

 

 

 

Yixing kisses the same. He's sweet about it at first, touches Jongdae's face gently like he's afraid he might break.

(Which Jongdae might.)

It's chaste and comforting and like coming home and Jongdae sighs a little, from the depths of his chest, his lungs almost giving out. He traces the jut of Yixing's jaw with his thumb, cups his face much like Yixing does his own.

"Missed that," he says when they pull back. Yixing smiles at him, kisses the tip of his nose and lets their foreheads rest together. Jongdae closes his eyes and it _hurts_. "When do you gotta leave again?"

Yixing exhales through his nose; it feels like it takes him forever to empty his lungs. "Noon, I think. They'll call me to confirm."

"Okay," Jongdae says, pulling back and trying to smile. "You probably need help packing—"

"I don't care about packing," Yixing murmurs, shaking his head. His eyes are so bright, his lips chapped and so pink. "I wanna spend the night here, with you, I'll worry about packing when I want to, and right now the only thing I want is to keep kissing you. Can I?"

 _Fuck_. Jongdae exhales—god, Yixing is just so. _So_. He smiles sideways. "You've never asked before."

"There's always a first," Yixing counters, a tiny smile on his mouth. "Besides, I feel like if I just go for it, you'll lump me over the head and make me pack anyway."

"I'll still do that," Jongdae nods, and touches the corner of Yixing's mouth—which is no longer smiling and parts for breath at Jongdae's touch—and says, "later."

And Jongdae kisses him, then, closes the distance between them with a furiously beating heart and kisses Yixing like he's trying to memorize and relearn this, like he's about to take a breath and turn it into song, his lungs aching between his ribs.

"Bed, bed," Jongdae breathes between them, tugging at Yixing's wrist as he tries to stand up. He's dizzy. "We're not doing this on the couch."

Yixing's smile is teasing. His mouth is _so_ red. " _Now_ you have sense?"

Jongdae doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He still smiles, though, brings Yixing to his feet and drops a hasty kiss on his mouth before pulling away to lead them both towards Jongdae's room. Yixing's hands find his hips somewhere down the way, and he kisses the back of Jongdae's neck, sweet and warm and tender.

 

 

 

There's nothing sweet about it now. The desperation Jongdae's managed to stave off returns like a punch to the teeth and it sets shakes on his fingers as they pull Yixing's shirt hastily off. Yixing's no better, he's everywhere, mouth and tongue and teeth, his fingers on Jongdae's skin, his chest, his neck, his hips, his cock. Jongdae's bed is still unmade from god knows when and Yixing looks right at home on it, hair a mess and lips kissed swollen, eyes heavy and cheeks flushed, and it makes Jongdae clutch at him a little harder, afraid the illusion might disappear all too soon.

He rides Yixing slow and tortuous, Yixing with a hand wrapped around Jongdae's throat and the other one on Jongdae's dick, praises him and whispers his name like it's the only word he knows, the only thing he _can_ say, and then he's rolling them over, his mouth on Jongdae's, deep and dirty, his thumb over Jongdae's asshole, like a kiss, a soft touch, before fucking his cock in, slow and sure.

Jongdae can't breathe, can't get enough air in his lungs to say a thing. He's making _noise_ , he's sure of that, because Yixing's fucking him hard enough to punch every little sound out of him, but there's not enough sanity in him left to string words together, and god, he wishes there were, because there's a lot he'd like to say, a lot he'd like to tell Yixing, whisper it between their parted mouths.

"Jongdae," Yixing says, cradling his face softly, like he's not bending Jongdae almost in half and fucking him so hard the bed shakes, "god, Jongdae—"

"Please," Jongdae utters, the only word he can remember how to form, that and, "Yixing, please—"

Please— _harder, deeper, more, yes_.

( _Please, don't go_ , but Jongdae doesn't get to say to that.)

_Please—_

Yixing fucking him deep and dirty, a hand on Jongdae's throat again, the weight of it, all of him, and the other one tight around his fingers, held above his head, so deep, god, so _deep—_

" _Yixing_ ," Jongdae breathes, like a prayer, like he can't believe it, pleasure like this. Because Yixing fucks like he does everything else, with single minded devotion, with his heart in his mouth, fiery passion at the tip of his fingers.

They come toppling right after another, Yixing's mouth on his, his body on his, and Jongdae clutches at him as hard as he can, kisses him as deep as he knows, and _hopes_ and pretends Yixing isn't mouthing _I love you_ s against his cheek.

 

 

 

The texts are nice. The late-night calls and the occasional video chat fill the emptiness between Jongdae's fingers, just barely. Yixing looks the same on the screen of his phone, bright but bleary-eyed, cheeks a bit paler in comparison to the Yixing Jongdae last saw.

It's not a bad thing. Just not a good one, either.

"We can make this work, Zhongda," Yixing says in soft Chinese. He only uses Chinese in their conversations when he's dead tired, says his brain can't keep up with languages anymore. Yixing blinks sleepily, face smooched into his pillow, cheek creased and right eye almost shut closed. "We can, right?"

"Of course," Jongdae says, because that's the only truth he knows tonight and Yixing's already falling asleep on him, a thousand miles away.

**Author's Note:**

> that's a terrible endiNG I KNOW YOU CAN HATE ME


End file.
